


Fifty-One

by Lullenny



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, None - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lullenny/pseuds/Lullenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course, Blair is the vain one, now and in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifty-One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slice of birthday cake for a friend.

Jim came home, and things were the same, only more so. There was a goodness about closing the door behind him, a small joy that got shuffled away most days but on days like these he savored the way the small muscles just under his skin relaxed when the door clicked shut. He saw Blair sitting at the table, papers strewn out in front of him, and that was a goodness, too, as familiar and homey as the scent of Ellison/Sandburg spaghetti sauce bubbling softly on the stove. Almost fifteen years old, that aroma, and still a favorite. 

"Hey," said Blair. 

"Hey yourself." He hung his jacket, stashed his keys and stored his weapon before he ambled to the kitchen and lifted the lid. "Smells good, Chief." 

"Yeah, it's cold tonight. Good night for spaghetti or soup." 

A good half of Blair's concentration was sunk in the papers; his voice had that distant tone that challenged Jim to kidnap his attention just because he could, so Jim walked over and leaned his hip on the edge of the table. He crossed his arms and loomed, just a little, and looked down on the curly crown of Blair's head. He saw less gray there than on the sides, and it was iron rather than silver. The whole mass was longer than usual. "Still working on that profile?" 

"Yeah, well, no, I mean, it's done and the Feds got their copy, but I thought maybe something new might shake loose if I gave it another go." He stretched in his chair, reaching back and pushing on his spine until three vertebrae popped. Jim winced at the sound, and Blair smiled up at him. He took off his glasses and pushed hair back from his eyes. 

"You growing that mop out again?" 

"Why? You want me to?" 

"It's your hair. Do what you want," said Jim, but he leaned down and rubbed his nose in the waves at Blair's temple. 

"Maybe I'll grow it out when I get more gray, and then I can do the Albert Einstein thing." 

"Hm?" Jim straightened. 

"You know," and he messed up his hair and stuck out his tongue, pulling surprised chuckles from Jim. 

Blair gathered up his mess while Jim boiled pasta. The sauce was a particularly good batch, and they put more effort into eating than talking until Blair used bread to push the last of his sauce around his plate in a desultory way. "So, any plans for tomorrow?" 

Jim's fork paused in midair. "Go to work. Guilt you into doing my paperwork if I can swing it. Dinner out would be nice; I've heard good things about that new steakhouse on Washington. Get laid." He pursed his lips thoughtfully, and then nodded once, done. "That's about it." He took a big bite of pasta. 

"You're easy." 

"Mm-hm. Got a problem with that?" 

"No, no. No problem at all." 

After supper, paperwork snowed the table under once more. Blair sat down to it, but he shifted in his chair and muttered dark imprecations under his breath. Elbow deep in dishwater, Jim glanced over his shoulder. Blair shoved his glasses up, and then down, and then he took them off and held a piece of paper out at arm's length. 

"Arms getting shorter?" 

"Oh, shut up. The font's too damned small." 

Jim concentrated, just a little. "Looks pretty standard to me." 

"You suck, you know. You really, really suck." 

"Only if you ask nice." 

Blair threw the paper down, disgusted. "Sure, why not. I'm getting sooo much done here." 

"Grumpy old man." 

"Says the birthday boy. Soon as midnight tolls, you'll be older than dirt." 

"Oh, yeah? And I wasn't older than dirt last year?" 

"Actually, you were older than dirt last year, but I figured the trauma of turning fifty was bad enough without burdening you with that bit of information." 

"Turing fifty wasn't a trauma. Getting fourteen boxes of Rogaine at a surprise party -- _that_ was a trauma." 

"Going blind's no fucking picnic either," muttered Blair. 

Jim rinsed the last dish and emptied the dishpan. He dried his hands and went to Blair, rounded the chair, and dug his fingers into the bunched meat of Blair's shoulders. Blair's head dropped forward and he made a noise that sounded like defeat and encouragement all at once. Jim rubbed his thumbs up and down the tendons in his neck. "Just buy some reading glasses, Blair." 

"Don't wanna." 

"Is this some kind of weird vanity? You too proud to use them or something?" 

Blair's chest inflated and fell as he sighed deeply. "Getting older sucks." 

"Uh, Chief? You're not old." 

"I'm not old, but I'm _older_." 

"And you seemed so serene on your birthday..." 

"I seemed so drunk on my birthday. I think I'm still hung over." 

"Wow. A month-long hangover. I'm impressed." 

"Well, I'm over forty now. It takes longer to recover." 

_Oh, get over yourself,_ Jim thought affectionately. He walked his fingers down the columns on either side of Blair's spine; Blair grunted in appreciation and they said nothing for long minutes. The tick of the clock took advantage of the silence. 

Jim leaned low over Blair's back. His arms followed his hands around Blair's chest, and he tucked his nose and mouth into the crook of Blair's neck. Blair obligingly tilted his head to one side to provide better access, and Jim began to gnaw the skin under his ear. Under his lips, he felt the rumble as Blair spoke. 

"M'glad you put up with this grumpy old man." 

"You're not old. You're a baby." Jim cinched his arms tight, hugging hard. "And I'll put up with you when you're older than dirt." He loosened the knot of his arms and glided his palms over Blair's chest, down his stomach, stropped his thighs down to his knees and back up; he framed the bulge at Blair's groin with his thumbs and felt it stir. Jim turned his head, nosed past hair and tongued the ear he found. Blair breathed in noisily. Jim hummed happily, his lips curving against the skin of Blair's neck. 

The phone rang. Jim's hands tightened and let go reflexively, and he continued slurping around Blair's ear. The phone rang again. 

"You gonna ignore that?" asked Blair. 

"Shut up." Jim tried harder to distract Blair, sliding his hands up under the shirt, palming the hair on his chest, following the path down, and trying to get his hand past the waistband of the pants. The phone gave up and switched to the answering machine. 

_You've reached Sandburg and Ellison. Next time, reach higher._ Beep! 

"Hey," said Jim, talking over whoever was leaving a message, "that's not exactly professional there." 

"Oh, c'mon. You use the cell for work; we're allowed to be a little creative on our private line..." 

"...pick up if you're there. Hate to bug you, but that's what I pay you for. Pick up...pick up...okay, I'm calling Sandburg's cell -- you had better answer." 

"Shit. Finkleman." Blair groaned and slid out from under Jim's hands. He moved to the phone too late; soon, his cell phone bleated. He rifled through his jacket's pockets where it hung by the door, found the cell phone and flipped it open. "Sandburg here. What's up, Captain?" 

Jim listened in. "Ring Man struck again. A jogger found the body twenty minutes ago. I want you both there." 

* 

The FBI beat them. Jim watched Blair seethe angrily as he drove; he cursed and muttered while he parked, but he visibly tamped down his temper before he slammed the door of his electric Rav4. 

"Detective Sandburg? Detective Ellison?" A woman detached from the small knot of FBI suits and approached them. She held out her hand. "Agent Debra Wright." 

Blair stepped forward and shook her hand briefly. "I'm Detective Sandburg." He looked around pointedly. "There's a lot of activity going on here; you've got to wrap it up." 

"You're primary on this case?" 

"Yeah. Did you receive the profile I made up on this guy?" 

"Yes, Detective. An intriguing piece of work." 

"So why do you have all these lights and people around? It's just feeding his wants, and all it's going to do is make him bold," said Blair. 

Jim watched them argue a moment, realized Blair was going to mop the place with Agent Wright's tailored ass, and wandered into the scene, setting his focus free and zooming in on those details that suggested themselves to him as he examined the body. Poly-string bonds. Roughened skin on the chest. A sweetish smell: cologne or hair product. The missing ring finger, and the diamond ring placed on the tongue: Ring Man's signature. And blood. Lots of blood. Jim reached up and rubbed the tonsured patch of sparse hair on the back of his head. February temperatures had dipped; the breeze cut through his coat, and he felt naked. Nude. Vulnerable. 

Watched. 

Jim turned slowly, recognizing a moment of sensory-based insight. The killer was close. 

Blair had helped him harness this odd ability that looked like a manifestation of psychic powers but was, for the most part, just a mosaic of sensory input that Jim didn't necessarily recognize as input unless taken as a whole. However it happened, after years of practice, Jim recognized it easily and rode the knife's edge of guess and detail. Hearing seemed to lead him; a scent less substantial than a ghost's made him turn to the left where his eyes were drawn by a patch of shadow that was otherly-dense. "Sandburg," he called out. "Get over here." Blair obligingly trotted to him. 

"You got something? God knows Wright doesn't have a clue." 

"She's just young." 

"Kids these days; they act like they own the world but they don't know a thing." He shook his head. "So, you find something...?" 

Jim spoke low. "Can't quite zero in on it, but I sense...I sense... He's alone. He's...near." 

Blair brushed at Jim's jacket front. "Push 'em out there." Jim knew he referred to the senses. Blair brushed again, as if at a piece of lint that wouldn't come off. He frowned at Jim's chest; Jim looked down at a pinprick of glowing purple light over his heart and suddenly Blair was shoving Jim, pushing him right off his feet. 

They fell together. As they fell, Jim felt on his cheek the breeze as of a stinging insect pass by. Blair screamed out, "Sniper!" 

Police and FBI erupted with guns and action. The Feds wore liquid armor on their bodies and night-vision slicks on their faces; they carried distance-tazers. Cascade PD had some of the fancy new stunners, but mostly old-fashioned grunt muscle and standard issue nine-mils; still, they were the first to leap forward to aid their own. Jim and Blair broke apart after rolling close to a picnic table for cover; guns out, they joined the search. 

The chase resolved quickly. Rafe found the perp in a tree, dressed head to foot in with every advantage of technology the year 2012 had to offer: a pair of wraparound glasses that could see in the dark, nano-bot neural net draped along his skin, extended range sniper rifle with plasma-sights, bullets tough enough to penetrate concrete, and his weapon of choice: a titanium knife. However, with his attention focused so highly at a distance, he never heard or saw Rafe until Rafe stunned him on one of his dangling legs and tumbled him off his perch. He was arrested with a disappointing lack of fanfare despite the necklace of human fingers around his neck. 

Finkleman made an appearance. She talked to Rafe first, stroking his ego and rightly so. Then she turned to the periphery where Jim and Blair lurked and approached them. 

"Sandburg, good work." 

"Thanks, Captain." 

"Put him in for a commendation, Captain," said Jim. 

"Oh?" 

"Saved my life. That was a helluva tackle." 

"Mmm-mmm." Captain Finkleman nodded, saying nothing as she walked away in search of the Feds. 

"Think she'll go for it?" asked Blair. "Be cool to get a better raise this year." 

"You know how she works. Flip a coin. It's as good a way to guess her mind as any." 

"I miss Simon." 

"You see him every other month..." 

"I mean, I miss him on the job." 

"Ah." Jim did, too. Finkleman had been Captain of Major Crimes for nearly three years now, and though interacting with her had eased into something less straight-laced, she still felt like an outsider to Jim. 

It suddenly occurred to Jim that that was his least favorite sign of age -- the faces kept changing. 

* 

The clock chimed the last notes of midnight as Jim and Blair returned home. 

"Ah, February 23rd at last," said Blair. Soberly, he added, "Happy birthday, Jim." 

"You're awfully serious." 

"Yes, well, kind of a close shave back there. Just a little one." Blair hung his jacket and beelined for the fridge. "A micro shave. Maybe even a nano-shave." 

"So...we shave big?" 

"Ohhh, my friend, we shave like you wouldn't believe." He rooted in the refrigerator but came up empty handed. "Well, shit. We're out of beer." 

"The end of civilization as we know it." 

"Mock all you want. Just for that, _you_ make the beer run." 

Jim intercepted him as he walked past and roped him in with one long arm. He pressed his forehead to Blair's and turned his voice down low and quiet. "Nooo, I've got other plans. Gonna run all over you." 

"Oh, well. Okay." The corners of Blair's mouth curled, deep cuts of amusement. "Nothing's too good for the birthday boy. Ahem. Birthday geezer." 

"Geezer." Jim snorted. "You looking for trouble, Grandpa?" 

"I still got the moves." Blair wiggled in his arms. 

Jim drew him along to the stairs. "What is with you? You're forty-three. That's not old. Nobody thinks that's old." 

"Forty-three years and...twenty-six days. Eighteen- to twenty-nine-year-olds think it's ancient," said Blair. "I sure did. But it's not the years. It's the wear and tear. And the, the indignities." 

"Oh, for Christ's sake. You look thirty." 

"My knees ache if I'm on my feet too long. I have sun damage. My knuckles hurt when it snows. My near vision's shot. And Jim, Jim," he sounded pained, "I have love handles." 

"All the better to fuck you with, my dear." 

Blair groaned. 

"Just suck it up and take ibuprophin and buy the damned glasses." 

"And I'll have you know I do not look thirty. I look thirty-two at the very least; maybe thirty-three. Thirty-four. And I have gray. Lots of gray. I even have it in my beard." 

They ascended the last step together. Jim muttered _hey, a little peace and quiet; I'm trying to have sex here_. Blair began unbuttoning his shirt. Jim stood close and helped. He bowed his head to sprinkle dry kisses on the upturned face; some landed near the generous mouth, which charitably drew him in and made their mouths wet. They remained standing, swaying, kissing, and plucking off clothes. 

When both were naked, Jim pushed Blair, who obligingly flopped onto the bed. Jim bridged himself over him and began feeding in earnest, blazing southward over the fields of Blair's chest. 

Blair cleared his throat. "Mm, you know what I found this morning? A gray pubic hair." 

Jim froze. "What?" 

"Jim, if you have gray pubic hair, you're old. That's like, a real _old_ person thing." 

From over his belly, Jim fixed Blair with a glare but allowed his hands to continue wandering. "You have got to be kidding." 

"I'm serious, I'm...whoa, do that again." 

"This?" 

"Nooo...." 

"This?" 

"Whoooa!" 

"You know," said Jim, and he held his voice carefully conversational, "This isn't exactly the first gray pubic hair I've seen on you." 

"What? And you didn't think it was pertinent to tell me?" 

"Uh, we're talking about pubic hair, c'mon." Jim snaked down the body. "This is a pretty weird conversation, even for you." 

Blair heaved another of his toe-deep sighs. It would have been his greatest weapon had he been born female and become the Jewish mother his grandparents wished Naomi had been. It worked fairly well on Jim anyhow, who asked exasperatedly, "What now?" 

"Just..." Blair pulled him up so they faced each other. His fingers traced along Jim's face; Jim suspected they mapped the lines drawn by time, but he saw nothing but adoration in the regard. "The close shave thing. I'm glad I still have the moves to shove you out of the way of things that wanna knock you down." 

"Oh, you do, sweetheart. You do." 

Their skin continued the conversation until it became a shouting match of joy that slumped into the sort of comfort made possible by the companionship of years. Their bodies ticked cooler, and as he waded into sleep, Jim heard the clock tick to itself downstairs. With Blair's weight in his arms, he struggled deeper into the dark stream until, between one tick of the clock and the next, there was perfect silence. 

* 


End file.
